


Conditional Things

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Accidental Relationship, Also they both have various unrequited crushes on their colleagues, F/F, F/M, Food, Friends With Benefits, Hair Washing, M/M, Mild Kink, idk I just think they have surprising chemistry!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29809290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: “Friends with benefits” doesn’t really describe their situation because that would imply that they were friends before they added the benefits. But it’s the closest she can find to a label that doesn’t make her cringe or him wince, so that’s what they settle on.Gina and Boyle are having casual sex and that is all they're doing. Anything else would be unthinkable.
Relationships: Charles Boyle/Gina Linetti
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Conditional Things

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this is a soft S2 AU where no one notices Gina and Charles are having sex so they just... don't stop. 
> 
> (There's also unrequited Jake/Charles and Gina/Rosa. And Charles/Rosa. And a tiny bit of Gina/Terry. So just a normal amount of casual workplace crushing.)

Boyle is like a benign skin complaint. He’s gross and irritating and suddenly he’s in all the places he’s not supposed to be. Gina tells him exactly that, under her breath, when he catches her alone in the break room and pulls up a chair as though they’re, like, social equals or something.

He smiles, which is not the reaction she was aiming for.

“And you know what you do with a skin complaint?” He lets his jacket fall open and nods at an inner pocket. 

“I’m sorry but I would literally die before I put my hand in there.”

“Fine.” He rolls his eyes, reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small bottle of… something. “What do you do with a skin complaint? You rub it with a soothing lotion.”

“Boyle, I am _eating_.”

“This is a jojoba seed massage oil, handmade with laurel leaf and a hint of blood orange. It also doubles as a lubricant.”

“You have to stop talking,” she snaps. “Someone could walk in at any moment.”

That gets the message across. He zips up his jacket, eyes darting to the door. “But I should bring it tonight, right?”

“Obviously. But manage your expectations: Gina Linetti receives massages, she does not give them.”

He squirms in his seat, nods briskly and then he’s up and out of her sight. 

Like a rash, Gina thinks. Or a patch of eczema or an outbreak of hives. The kind of irritation you just can’t stop picking at.

* * *

“Friends with benefits” doesn’t really describe their situation because that would imply that they were friends before they added the benefits. But it’s the closest she can find to a label that doesn’t make her cringe or him wince, so that’s what they settle on.

What’s most important is that they understand what he is not: He is not a lover or a partner or a boyfriend. He is not qualified for any of those positions.

What Gina’s looking for is a take-charge kind of guy. Someone who looks half-decent in public, who can dance like a fallen angel and smoulder like embers of coal. A man who can lift her up and celebrate her, but who knows when to wrap his strong arms around her and make her feel like a woman.

Boyle can’t do any of those things. (Although his arms are stronger than they look. She knows because he clings in his sleep.) But that’s not to say he doesn’t have talents of his own.

“You know,” she muses, feeling generous in the afterglow. “You give surprisingly capable head.”

“‘Capable’?” He’s weirdly indignant in the face of a rare compliment. “I give _life-changing_ head. There are food bloggers out there who would kill for this tongue. Oral dexterity is a transferable skill, you know.”

“Boyle...”

“It’s true! Not to brag, but Eleanor used to call it my redeeming feature.”

The conversation steers back to his ex-wives and ex-fiancees and ex-crushes more often than Gina would prefer. It’s not that it makes her jealous, obviously, but it’s sort of a bummer. She makes a mental note: Do not be kind to Boyle, it only encourages him.

“Come here,” she says, as wearily as she can manage, and she angles her head so he can bend to press his not-totally-incompetent mouth to her neck and shoulders. She closes her eyes, trying not to imagine a sweaty legion of jealous Brooklyn foodies lining up for a bit of tongue. She tries not to think of the word ‘tongue’ at all, which is an impressive feat of denial under the circumstances. “You’re so lucky you’re not terrible at this.”

* * *

Sometimes when he’s on top and moving inside her, she likes to say _wait_ purely for the satisfaction of watching him force himself still. He doesn’t even pull out, just freezes and trembles, his eyes on her. The corner of his mouth is tense.

She likes to reach up and touch his cheek, watching his eyes fall closed. Feels his trembling exhale against her throat.

“You okay up there?” she likes to say.

“Yes,” he sounds strangled, his whole body taut with the effort. “Yep. All good.”

“You want to keep going?”

“Please.”

He says it so nicely, with absolutely no hesitation. She settles back against her little mound of cushions. Waves a gracious hand like she’s royalty, except without the inbreeding.

“Very well, then. You may continue.”

It’s like revving an engine. The air goes out of him in a rush and he pants against her neck, his hands clutching at her and his hips moving with a desperate urgency. It’s honestly as close as he gets to hot.

It’ll do. Temporarily.

* * *

They rarely go to Boyle’s place because Boyle’s place has this whole mournful vibe that Gina wants no part of. It feels like it’s haunted by one of those crying ghosts that leaks tears into your sink and wails through the hollow walls. Gina should send her psychic over there; she’d have a field day.

It works out just fine. She gets to stay home, where she’s in her element, and he gets to have sex in Jake’s old apartment. (“Did you change the mattress when you moved in?” he asks early on, trying to sound casual, and she fixes him with a look that tells him never to ask again.) Everyone wins.

One evening — and only once because Gina immediately issues a moratorium on it ever happening ever again — he shows up at her door with his sad face and a bottle of apology wine and his pack of horny puppies.

“Sorry,” he says as they settle on her couch, the dogs left with strict instructions to keep their canine orgy in the corner. And he really does sound sorry. “Pet sitter cancelled on me. I promise they won’t be any trouble.”

The puppies are trouble. Every time she tries to make a move, the puppies are all over them, all slobbery and hairy and needy. One of them is apparently in an exclusive relationship with Charles’ leg. There’s going to be fur everywhere. Everywhere.

“They’re not so bad!” he insists, but it’s obvious from his expression that even he can tell this is bad. “You like wolves, right? My little guys are like their distant cousins.”

“Charles, you _not_ just compare these genetic rejects to the most majestic of animals.” She hopes that her tone makes her disapproval clear. It does and he apologises again. Keeps apologising every time the puppies come scrambling over to ruin their night, but he can’t seem to stop smiling despite the fur and the teeth and the slobber. And the puppies just keep bouncing back for more, no matter how hard she tries to shoo them away.

Gina sighs, pulls her robe tighter and pours herself a large glass of apology wine. So much for sex. Sometimes you just have to abandon your dreams of orgasm and resign yourself to an evening of watching Boyle play with his disgusting babies.

* * *

Of course Boyle loves puppies. He can’t function without something to adore and take care of. That’s probably why he’s so obsessed with Jake, who’s basically a puppy in human form. But he keeps finding his way back to Gina, who’s as far from a puppy as it’s possible to get. 

Sometimes she catches him trying to do little boyfriend-type things, like buying her new clothes (“hideous, Charles”), making her breakfast (“edible, actually”) and picking up her laundry on his way over (“straight-up helpful, not gonna lie”). She tries not to encourage it. Doesn’t want to give him the impression there’s that much room for him in her world.

“Redirect that pampering energy,” she suggests, picking at the bowl of lime-infused pistachios that somehow materialises in her apartment whenever he drops by. His eyes follow her fingers from the dish to her lips. “Instead of thinking ‘I’m going to buy Gina an ugly vase of basic tulips,’ ask yourself, ‘how can I better please Gina in the bedroom?’”

“Oh, I think about that too,” he says, and she realises that this was a terrible mistake because now he’s asking whether she thinks he’d look better in leather or latex or maybe this cute little lace thing he saw online? And she just wants to slide down onto the ground and never stand up again. Maybe she’ll have to abandon the apartment, Nana or no Nana. The whole place is tainted now. The word ‘latex’ is objectively unsuitable for human ears when spoken by Charles Boyle. It’s like he’s released his own tragic brand of toxic gas into the room.

“Obviously you’d be in leather,” he says, and he says it with such absolute conviction that she laughs out loud. 

“I don’t get it,” she says, mostly to the ceiling. “How am I your type? I mean, I get that I’m everyone’s type. But you— you like hearts and flowers and having your affection requited, and I’m all...” she gestures to herself, to her whole air of glamorous unavailability.

He shrugs and smiles in that way that’s so earnest and unguarded that it makes her want to fling herself from a window. “I guess I just think we’re very sexually compatible.”

It’s the cruellest thing anyone’s ever said to her. And it’s even worse because she thinks there’s a chance it might be true.

* * *

A few days later she’s casually watching Rosa in that normal, detached way you watch superior lifeforms move through the world. Rosa pulls on her jacket and Gina thinks _leather_ and then she thinks _oh crap_ and her stomach twists a little — none of which is a normal reaction for an aloof goddess of her stature, so she decides that’s enough thinking for one day. She goes home early, lights some incense and sits in her bathroom DIYing the most stressed pedicure of all time. She wonders if anyone at the precinct has even noticed she’s gone.

* * *

One good thing about not-dating Boyle: He fits around her dance schedule and he’s always willing to watch her practice. He actually gives pretty insightful feedback. If anything, he’s a little bit too on board.

“I could join in if you need a partner,” he offers, perched on the edge of the couch. “Eleanor and I took three months of salsa classes when we were trying to spice things up in the bedroom.”

“Salsa is a dead medium,” Gina replies, midway through a hip-hop pirouette of her own creation. She gives him a considering look. “How are your lifts?”

“Inconsistent.”

She sighs, trying not to think about how easily Terry could lift her; how she’d be like a sexy rag doll in his arms. But Terry keeps insisting that he’s “happily married” and “a father” so here she is instead, with Detective Inconsistent.

“But if I drop you, I can patch you right back up,” Charles adds hopefully. “I’m a certified first aid specialist.”

It’s not super encouraging. But in his defence, he’s shown more interest in her dancing than almost any other man she’s ever known, including one or two instructors. So she’s willing to cut him a little slack.

“Let’s keep you on the couch, where you do your best work. And yes, that was an intentional double entendre. You’re welcome.”

So then she has to deal with his dopey smile for the whole rest of the evening.

* * *

She makes a point of saying no occasionally, just to make sure he appreciates it when she says yes. And there’s always a reason to say no. When he catches her eye in an empty elevator; when the tip of his finger finds the edge of her thigh under the table at Shaw’s after everyone else has gone home; when they’re in bed and he’s just on the edge and he really, really wants to finish. Sorry, Charles. She says it ever so sweetly. Not now. Not today. Maybe next week, if I’m feeling it. 

And he’ll nod and rein himself in, quiet and flushed, his eyes all wide and dark and fixed on her until she decides he’s waited long enough. He’s spent his whole life getting good at waiting. She kind of likes that about him.

* * *

Sometimes Gina thinks: If Rosa lost her mind, marched up to Boyle’s desk, grabbed him by his stupid tie and marched him out of the precinct and into her bedroom, Gina would never see him again. He would literally quit his job and become Rosa’s full-time sexual butler. No one would even question it. Oh, and meanwhile Gina would just wither away and die because Rosa could do so, so much better.

And sometimes she thinks: If Jake lost his mind, swung by Boyle’s desk, made a few nervous jokes and coaxed him into the interrogation room, Charles would spill every one of his secrets in a heartbeat. Gina would be the best man for one of them at their wedding. She’s not sure which. Maybe both of them? Maybe she’d make them fight for her.

And then she thinks, wait, why is she worrying about all this? Doesn’t she despise and pity Boyle? Doesn’t she want nothing more than for someone to lure him away? Since when does she care about his little crushes? 

It’s almost — _almost_ — as if she’s the one losing her mind.

That’s not a good thought, so she gets rid of it. She puts on her headphones, finds some paperwork to ignore and goes back to thinking about all the nice things Beyoncé will say when she finally discovers Floorgasm’s YouTube compilation.

* * *

She will never ever, ever admit this to anyone, but the hair-washing thing is not as embarrassing and terrible as it sounds.

The bathroom lights are dimmed and the bubbles are almost all gone but the water is a pleasant shade of glittery pink. There are tea lights dotted around the bath, still flickering, and nothing’s caught on fire. The whole apartment smells of orange blossom and honeysuckle, and honestly Gina has never felt this relaxed outside a professional spa environment.

“So we can do it again?” Charles asks afterwards, and it feels wrong that he’s still fully clothed and mostly dry while she’s all wet and sleepy and floaty. He actually has the nerve to look a little smug. But cautiously smug, at least. 

“The head massages only get better as we become more intimate,” he says, despite knowing full well that ‘intimate’ is a forbidden word. “The more we do it, the more I can tailor them to your particular stress points. Did you know that you carry a surprising amount of tension in your scalp?”

That’s you, she wants to say. You are the cause of the tension in my scalp. She had the smoothest forehead in the city before they started hooking up. Aestheticians hated her.

Still, he’s kneeling on the cold tiles of her bathroom, the dirty water seeping into his slacks. His hands are still all soapy and delicate-looking, his hair’s out of place and in the candlelight he could almost — almost — pass for a six. He must have drugged the shampoo or something.

“I’ll consider it,” she says at last and his eyes light up. When he helps her out of the bath, she presses herself flush against him, so the water and suds and essential oils soak into his shirt and pants. He doesn’t even look annoyed, just pulls her closer and inhales as the steam curls gently around them.

* * *

“So the perp had been giving us the runaround for weeks. Weeks! And I won’t lie to you, I was at my wits’ end. But you know how Jake can be when a case gets under his skin—” 

“Uh huh.”

“I mean like a dog with a boner.”

“Not the expression, but continue.”

“So Jake got some details out of a witness, and eventually we tracked the guy down to this old warehouse. And Jake was coming up with all these cool things to say when we made the bust, and he was wearing the flak vest that really brings out his eyes and—”

“Can we skip the parts of this story that are just about how much you’re into Jake?” she cuts him off, surprised by how legit annoyed she sounds but unwilling to drop it now that she’s realised she’s mad. “I’m just saying, that would save us a lot of time.”

Charles smiles, blank-faced, as though she’s started speaking Martian.

“Wow,” he says after the longest moment. “You’re way off base. I’m into _Rosa_ , remember? But she’s not into me, so I’m working on getting over it. And Jake is into Amy, like duh. And they’re made for each other, which means Amy’s into Jake even if she doesn’t know it yet. The captain’s into his husband. Rosa’s into... someone, I’m not sure yet. She’s super private. You’re kind of into me, but we don’t talk about that. And obviously no one is into Terry.”

He looks so confident that Gina wonders if he’s got a chart stashed away somewhere. She kind of wants to make one of her own so they can compare notes and she can explain that, seriously, _everybody_ is into Terry.

Instead she says, “you think I’m into you?”

“Well, I’ve been here almost two hours and we haven’t had sex yet.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to say,” she says, pulling him into an irritated kiss, which he rolls with, irritatingly. She feels disoriented: Is she annoyed? Is she benevolent? They’re fumbling towards something, somewhere they haven’t been before. She kind of wants to apologise, kind of wants to move on, but she also kind of wants to hover inside the not-quite-fight they’re not quite having.

But fighting with Charles is harder than it seems. He either caves immediately or he refuses to acknowledge the fight at all. So instead she kisses him again, more pointedly this time.

“Tell me what Jake said.” 

“Huh?”

“In your boring story. Fast forward to the cool thing Jake said when you busted the perp. If you’re very good, I’ll whisper it in your ear at a crucial moment.”

For a moment he goes still. Can’t quite meet her eyes. Then all the tension goes out of his body and he tells her. She nods solemnly, filled with a weird, shivery sensation, like winning and losing all at once. Is this how mortals feel, she wonders, when pierced by the arrows of vulnerability?

“I appreciate your candour,” she says. “And I will make it worth your while.” But she also draws it out, makes him work for it, just to compensate for those two long, boring hours of cop talk.

* * *

“You know I’m out of your league, right?”

They’re spread out on her bed and he’s staring at her with an expression she can’t help but appreciate. It’s like a combination of awe and terror. All men should look at her like this. All men _do_ look at her like this, or they will do someday if they don’t already. It just so happens that the man who does it most reliably is Charles Boyle.

“There’s no shame in it — I’m out of most people’s league. I just don’t want you to get your feelings hurt, you know?” She stretches, luxuriously. “When I tire of you, that is. As I inevitably will.”

“You haven’t yet,” he points out.

“See, saying things like that? That’s tiresome. Why do you insist on being tiresome, Boyle? It’s like you’re daring me to tire.”

For the first time in a long time, he looks like he might actually be hurt but he recovers quickly. He props himself up on an elbow and gives her a curious look. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Damn these detectives and their curiosity. Gina can’t relate. She can’t remember the last time she expressed an interest in something besides herself. “I’m not trying to get rid of you, I just don’t want you to think this is something it isn’t.”

It’s a reasonable precaution. They’re from two different worlds. She is an exquisite creature of grace and light, and he’s a sort of frog person who falls in love too easily and knows twelve different words for “juicy.” 

“What if you’re wrong?” he says, looking at her with a steadiness that she’s never seen before. “What if it already is something? Would that really be so bad?”

“Oh, Charles,” she purrs, trying to keep it playful. And that should be enough to warn him off the subject, but he looks just as stubborn as before. So okay then, she thinks, if he doesn’t want to play then they don’t have to play. “Of course it would be bad. What, do you think I’m going to upgrade you to BF status if you stare at me hard enough?”

And it’s true, right? Right from the start, this has been a strictly physical arrangement. Except now he’s got this stupid, gut-punched look in his eyes and it’s making her feel unsettled. And unsettled is not what this is supposed to be about. This is supposed to be a pleasant distraction, not a whole messy feelingsfest. Gina did not ask for any of this.

So she does what she’d do with any other friend whose benefits were no longer beneficial. She puts him on pause. She doesn’t even have to think twice about it.

* * *

It’s not like she doesn’t have other things to do. She’s been working on her social game, perfecting her manicure, swiping ostentatiously on Tinder and loudly soliciting Rosa’s opinions on the app’s various hotties. There are so many nines in a two-mile radius; all of them powerful and available and spread out like a sexy, no-strings-attached buffet. It’s like seeing in glorious technicolour after months of beige. 

The dates never quite live up to the profiles. One night she has to listen to the most beautiful man in Brooklyn talk about the Knicks’ new logo for two solid hours, and then it turns out he doesn’t even give oral. Brutal. But worth it just to come into work with a hickey the next day.

Yeah, maybe all this is a little unkind, but she’s trying to make a point here.

She knows she’s made that point when she looks up one day to see a deeply uncomfortable Jake Peralta leaning over her desk. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

“I can’t believe you two have put me in this position,” Jake says. “And I don’t want you to think for one moment that I approve of any of this. But you have to call Boyle.”

“Lower your voice,” she says, tensing. He’s had the decency to pick a quiet moment, but this is not a conversation she wants to have in the bullpen. “So I guess he told you, huh?”

“‘Told’ implies more coherent sentences and less whimpering,” Jake says. “But yeah, I pieced it together. Genius detective over here, right?”

Charles is being a drama queen. It hasn’t even been a month! And they work together so it’s not like they haven’t seen each other — she made sure he was around to see her hard-earned hickeys, for one thing. But Gina is an expert at ignoring the parts of her job that don’t appeal to her. So yes, ‘call Boyle’ is on her to-do list, but it’s hovering somewhere between ‘send thank-you note to the fire department.’ and ‘deep clean the break room microwave.’

Besides, a part of her suspects that Charles secretly likes being on pause. The man is constitutionally built to wallow. He’s probably having the time of his life yearning, pining and crying into Jake’s shoulder. She can just imagine the long evenings with Nancy Meyers and Nora Ephron and pints of artisan ice-cream. 

Jake, on the other hand, can only take so much manly weeping before he cracks, which has got to be the real reason for this little intervention. She wonders if he knows how Charles feels about him. It’s not like Charles has ever been subtle about it, but Jake can be oblivious as hell when he wants to be. 

Besides, he’s got his whole boring Amy situation to worry about. And yet he has the nerve to question _her_ taste in people.

“Be honest,” she says, steepling her fingers and tilting back in her chair. “You need me to take him off your hands.”

“I mean, if you seriously feel that way, you could just break up with him,” Jake says, and he actually sounds pissed. And not like he’s inconvenienced or embarrassed, but the protective kind of pissed. That pulls Gina up short. What if Charles _isn’t_ the self-indulgent wallowing kind of sad? Like, what if maybe he’s actually having a bad time. Which is crazy because what even is there to be sad about? It’s not like she’s his first choice, or even his second. And he’s not even in her top five.

“We can’t break up,” she says. “We’re not together. It’s strictly physical: We get drunk, we pound it out, we cuddle.” And yes, occasionally they have brunch, but only because he knows all the best spots. And yes, there was the hair-washing, but Jake definitely doesn’t need to know about that.

He winces. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“I hear myself, I hate myself.” She looks at her hands. Her beautiful hands, made for texting, beckoning handsome strangers to her side and receiving extravagant gifts. She had such dreams for those hands, but this is what’s become of them. “He’s rubbed off on me. I’ll never be clean again.”

“Please don’t use the words ‘rubbed off’ when you talk to me about Charles,” he says. But he’s smiling. An actual smile, as if this is something cute and positive, not a Hindenberg-level social catastrophe. And Gina’s not so sure it’s a good thing, but she can’t stop thinking, _Jake knows_. An actual person knows — a person she halfway respects! — and the world hasn’t ended. She hasn’t been swallowed up by the ground or vanished in a puff of shame or anything. 

“Seriously,” he says. “You’re my best friend. He’s my best friend. I don’t want to have to choose between you. So either call him or break it off or,” he throws up his hands. “I don’t know. Just— figure it out, okay?”

Divorce really does a number on a kid, she thinks, rolling her eyes at his back as he stomps off to the break room. She fires up Tinder. The hotties are lined up and waiting, with their square jaws and their symmetrical faces and all that upper body strength. What a shame. 

“Au revoir,” she whispers to each perfect pair of lips as she swipes left and left and left.

* * *

So fine. Okay. It takes two glasses of wine, but she does it. She picks up the phone.

“So, uh, Jake dropped by my desk today,” she says into the nervous crackle. And it’s almost degrading because seriously, what kind of loser _talks_ on a phone? Phones are for texting. Who knew you could even use one to make a phone call? “And he made it clear that I have been cruelly neglecting his best friend. And not in the fun, sexy way that you normally like.”

There’s a brief intake of breath down the line. And then Charles says, “wow, I really didn’t think you’d call.” His voice sounds thick and choked up, like maybe he really has been crying. And just how normal is it to cry over a few months of (admittedly excellent) sex?

She shrugs, reclines on her couch in her empty apartment, pictures the camera zooming in for her own personal reality show revelation. “Well, I guess I’m calling to ask if you’d like to come over on Saturday night. For— ” and she’s allowed to take a moment before saying it out loud, she’s allowed to retain the smallest scrap of dignity in this, “—a date, I guess. If you want to call it that.”

He makes a noise so high-pitched that she has to pull the phone away to protect her ears. When she feels like it’s safe to listen again, she can hear all of his dogs howling joyfully in the background.

“I take it that’s a yes?”

“Oh, it’s a yes. Of course it’s a yes. Yes! Oh my god, Gina. I promise, you are not going to regret this.”

“I already do,” she says, but she’s smiling. Impossibly, she can’t stop smiling. And she can hear him smiling over the phone, and she just knows his puppies are going beserk over there. It’s like the worst, happiest call imaginable. Like the whole world is on fire and buildings are collapsing around them and for some reason she’s like, apparently this is great news? Like, who even needed the world and the buildings? Like, when do they get to fuck again? 

(And yes, eventually he can’t resist asking if Jake _really definitely_ used the specific words ‘best friend’ to describe him. And when she says yes he makes a sound she has literally only ever heard him make in bed. But honestly? She can live with it. Maybe one day she’ll tell him some of her most cherished Rosa memories. If he can ever be trusted to keep them to himself, that is.)

* * *

It turns out the main difference between casually sleeping with Charles and casually dating him is he brings his good roasting dish and a paper bag full of groceries to the apartment for their first date. Then he disappears into the kitchen for an hour and, honestly, it’s nice and low-maintenance. Much less work than before. She gets through like three days of texting backlog.

One hour into the date, he says “hey, could I show you something?” And somehow she’s not at all surprised when that something turns out to be waiting for her on the dining table.

“A plate of red mush! Charles, you shouldn’t have.”

He rolls his eyes and sits down beside her. Picking up a fork, he scoops up a bit of red mush and points the business end at her mouth. “Open up.”

“I would rather die. For like five different reasons.”

He sighs and hands her the fork, but it doesn’t stop him talking. “What you’re looking at is a bell pepper, anointed with salt and oil and left to sweat at a low temperature until it collapses in on itself.”

It doesn’t look like a pepper. But it is undeniably red. She sniffs it, suspicious. Charles is still talking.

“...so once it’s cooled you can gently peel off its skin. And as you can see, the flesh underneath is light and succulent and it’s so delicate you can literally tear it apart with your bare hands.”

“And this is the resulting mush, I get it.” Gina peers at the red, fleshy mess. “Am I supposed to be pleased? Am I supposed to feel sorry for the mush? Am I supposed to be sexually aroused by the mush? Am I supposed to learn from the mush’s valiant, skinless example?”

“You could taste it,” he suggests, with an air of infinite patience. So she does.

The mush is not actually that bad. And Charles is gazing at her with barely suppressed satisfaction.

“You see? Removing the skin reveals the pepper’s delicate texture and its natural sweetness is enhanced by the salt. I added a dash of lime juice to sharpen it, too. You can taste it, can’t you? Tell me you can taste it.”

Gina sighs. She feels certain she’s going to regret this admission. “Yes, I can taste it.” There is, much as it pains her to even think it, something to be said for his skinless pepper mush.

He sways a little and it’s a good job he’s sitting down because she’s seen that look in his eyes right before a fainting spell. 

“This is a worthy offering,” she says. She’s about to add ‘and you will be rewarded’ when he leans forward to press his lips to her temple. Then her cheek. And then her mouth. His hands are on her forearms, fingertips digging in just a little too tight. And, to her astonishment, she realises her free hand is cupping his face and she’s kissing him back. 

There’s no excuse for this. It’s broad daylight with no prospect of sex for hours and they’re kissing. Worse, she’s leaning into it, into the dignity-sucking Boyle vortex, and she doesn’t hate it. His mouth tastes sweet and peppery. His skin is so soft. He’s so uncool. So needy. His dogs are borderline sex offenders. There’s no way he’s boyfriend material. And yet, despite her best intentions, she thinks she might be a little bit into it.

Eventually he pulls back, looking almost reluctant. “I have to get back to the stove. I’m preparing a bath of vinegar for the herring.”

So the whole apartment is going to smell like fish and vinegar. That’s great. She loves that. It’s just what Nana Peralta would have wanted. She kisses him again, just to watch him duck his head and smile at the floor.

RIP to her reputation, she thinks, watching him disappear into the kitchen. At least it’ll leave a beautiful corpse.


End file.
